AURELIA. Catiline, no more; You torture me—
CATILINE. Do you too blame my course? What better means therefor had I to choose?— In vain I lavished all that I possessed; My one reward was mockery and shame. Now in the senate has my adversary, The crafty Cicero, trampled me to earth. His speech was a portrayal of my life, So glaring that I, even I, must gasp. In every look I read dismay and fear; With loathing people speak of Catiline; To races yet unborn my name will be A symbol of a low and dreadful union Of sensuality and wretchedness, Of scorn and ridicule for what is noble.— And there will be no deed to purge this name And crush to earth the lies that have been told! Each will believe whatever rumor tells—
AURELIA. But I, dear husband, trust no such reports. Let the whole world condemn you if it will; And let it heap disgrace upon your head;— I know you hide within your inmost soul A seed that still can blossom and bear fruit. Only it cannot burst forth here in Rome; Poisonous weeds would quickly prove the stronger. Let us forsake this degradation's home;— What binds you here? Why should we dwell here longer?
CATILINE. I should forsake the field,—and go away? I should my greatest dreams in life surrender? The drowning man still clutches firm and fast The broken spars—though hope is frail and slender; And should the wreck be swallowed in the deep, And the last hope of rescue fail forever,— Still clings he to the lone remaining spar, And sinks with it in one last vain endeavor.
AURELIA. But should a kindly seacoast smile on him, With groves all green along the rolling billows, Hope then awakens in his heart again,— He struggles inward, toward the silvery willows. There reigns a quiet peace; 'tis beautiful; There roll the waves, in silence, without number; His heated brow sweet evening breezes cool, As weary-limbed he rests himself in slumber; Each sorrow-laden cloud they drive away; A restful calm his weary mind assuages;— There he finds shelter and prolongs his stay And soon forgets the sorry by-gone ages. The distant echo of the world's unrest Alone can reach his dwelling unfrequented. It does not break the calm within his breast;— It makes his soul more happy and contented; It calls to mind the by-gone time of strife, Its shattered hopes and its unbridled pleasures; He finds twice beautiful this quiet life— And would not change it for the greatest treasures.
CATILINE. You speak the truth; and in this very hour From strife and tumult I could go with you. But can you name me some such quiet spot, Where we can live in shelter and in peace?
AURELIA. [Joyful.] You will go, Catiline? What happiness,— Oh, richer than my bosom can contain! Let it be so, then! Come! This very night We'll go away—
CATILINE. But whither shall we go? Name me the spot where I may dare to rest My head in homely peace!
AURELIA. How can you ask? Have you forgot our villa in the country, Wherein I passed my childhood days, where since, Enraptured during love's first happy dawn, We two spent many a blithesome summer day? Where was the grass indeed so green as there? Where else the groves so shady and sweet-smelling? The snow-white villa from its wooded lair Peeps forth and bids us there to make our dwelling. There let us flee and dedicate our life To rural duties and to sweet contentment;— You will find comfort in a loving wife, And through her kisses banish all resentment.
[Smiling.]